Battlefield Medicine
by Anni Re
Summary: Instead of the quiet Saturday morning they were hoping for, Steve and Tony wake up to discover that their son, Peter, has been critically injured. In the same instance Iron Man and Captain America discover their son is Spiderman. So much for an uneventful weekend. Rated T for blood.


Battlefield Medicine

By: Anni Re

Spiderman more collided with the large tinted windows of Stark Tower than landed gracefully against them. The only thing keeping him from plummeting to the streets of Manhattan below were the silky strands of webbing coming from his web shooters. He dangled there for a minute, relishing the cool feeling of glass through his mask. Peter shook his head, trying to clear the spots out of his eyes, wishing that the city that never slept took a nap every once in a while. After a long night of crime fighting it was good to be home. Now all he had to do was get to the correct floor.

Peter stretched his hand up and pulled himself up the glass, but as he extended his right hand a sharp stab of pain sent a white hot flash across his eyes and made him grunt through his teeth. Peter curled up on himself, clinging to the line of webbing for dear life. He could feel the fresh flow of blood leaking down his side through the fabric of his uniform. Yes, Spiderman had managed to stop the Green Goblin from stealing that armored car, but not before the villain had clipped him with his glider. From the way it felt, he wasn't just going to be able to slap a Band-Aid on it. Peter swallowed another groan as he wrapped his webbing around his bicep and shoulder to stabilize his ascent. One handed, Peter made his way up the remaining floors of Stark Tower to reach the pent house suites. His side was screaming and he felt his thighs trembling as he struggled to push his body up the vertical surface. Halfway, his arm slipped and Peter was suddenly grateful for the ambient sounds of New York and that his father had installed soundproof windows in his Tower.

Stiffly, Peter shoved open his bedroom window and tumbled gracelessly onto the floor. His wound throbbed to the point that his bones had a heartbeat. He was getting light headed and felt nauseous, which he attributed to blood loss. Peter picked himself off the ground and stumbled, half blind, through his darkened bedroom towards his en suite, shucking Spiderman's mask and tossing it on top of his backpack.

Peter clicked on the lights in his bathroom and almost immediately wished that his radioactive spider bite had given him night vision. All the light bulbs had halos and his temples were being pressed into a vice. Peter padded across the tiles, peeling off his uniform as he did. He angled himself in the mirror to examine the gash and grimaced. It looked as bad as it felt. It followed the line of his lowest rib and was at least five inches long. The glider's razor sharp edge had cut Peter so cleanly that his skin folded back slightly. Dark blood congealed and flowed over Peter's fingers as he prodded at it.

"Peter." Peter jumped, his muddled thoughts forgetting that he was the only person Friday referred to by his given name. "Friday, you scared the crap out of me. Are Dad and Pops up?"

"No, said Friday, her cool, synthetic voice surrounding Peter in the small room. "Shall I awaken Dr. Banner or your parents?"

"No," said Peter, sharper than he meant has he strode, half naked, back into his bedroom, rummaging through his desk drawer.

"Peter," continued the AI, "you need medical attention."

"And medical attention I am giving," said Peter, returning to the bathroom, setting a spool of blue thread and a pack of sewing needles on the edge of the sink. He stared at them evenly and let out a little breath, trying to bolster his confidence; if he could sew Spiderman's suit, surely he could stich shut a slash in his side.

Peter unwound the thread around his finger and ran in through the eye of the needle, half listening as the AI continued to speak. "My data suggests that Spiderman has a 62% chance of injuring himself in the event of an altercation…"

"Gee, thanks," muttered Peter, tying the thread off with his teeth.

"…those statistics would decrease by two degrees of significance if Iron Man and Captain America were made aware of Spiderman's identi…"

Friday had said the magic phrase and Peter cut her off mid sentence. "Friday, override code: Arachnid."

There was a beat of silence before the AI spoke again. "Do you require anything else, Peter?"

"No, thank you," Peter added quietly, knowing his override code had cybernetically lobotomized Friday into keeping his secret as a moonlighting superhero from his parents. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Peter." And with that, the AI was silent.

With a huff, Peter swung his thigh up onto the sink to get a better view of his injury and began scrubbing the gash out with hand soap. To say it stung was an understatement. Peter felt the wound moving about underneath his palm and he had his lips pressed into such a thin line they were white. Peter let out the breath he was holding in a rush as he pulled his palm away and splashed his slash with scalding water until the sink ran pink. His hand was shaking by the time he picked up the needle. For a moment the point blurred and then came back into focus. Peter pinched his skin together and without prep or preamble jammed the needle in.

It wasn't the prick of the needle that hurt the worst, it was the almost unending zing of the thread running through his skin. The royal blue color of the thread had turned wine purple and a steady stream of scarlet created a broad stripe towards the drain. Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek and beat on his bathroom mirror before resting his face on his forearm, still braced against the glass. He had half a mind to summon Friday and have the AI get Bruce, get his parents, get anybody. However, he neither said anything nor did anything but lean against the sink, curled upon himself, shivering in his own sweat. With clumsy fingers Peter reeled the needle back up to his wound and continued to completion.

It was awful, but it would do and Peter didn't want to look at it anymore. On shaky knees, he stood upright and tossed his ruined spidey suit into his shower, stepping in after it. Even in his daze, Peter knew he couldn't just leave his suit lying around where anyone could find it. Nor did he want to get blood all over his text books. Peter turned on the shower and toed his uniform around the bottom of the tub, watery blood zipping down the drain in a mini maelstrom. Peter looked down at his side and saw that dried blood stretched from his ribs to his hipbone. He shuffled into the spray. Peter had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming and about leapt out of the shower itself. Peter pressed his face into the grouted tile and rapidly scooped handfuls of water onto his side, frantically scrubbing just to get it over with. He felt nauseous, both from his injury and the heat of the shower. Eventually, Peter sat down in the tub and wrung out his suit before, not even bothering to dry off, he dragged himself back into his bedroom.

Peter kept a hand on the wall to keep him standing and blinked owlishly around the room, both hot and cold at the same time. Peter shoved his wet suit and cowl into his backpack, no longer caring about the safety of his schoolwork. He rummaged though his laundry and pulled on a grey hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that he had worn to gym class last week. He was vaguely aware of the sun rising over the city skyline. Other than that, Peter crumpled silently into bed.

On a typical Saturday morning it was Steve who woke first, followed by Peter, then Tony. Steve didn't think that trend would change when he clicked off his alarm. "Good morning, Captain Rogers," chirped Friday.

"Good morning," Steve said, his nightstand lamp switching on the moment his feet touched the ground. Tony's side of the bed remained shadowed in darkness, the playboy billionaire only moving to claim the covers Steve had vacated before settling face down into the mattress again. Steve chuckled, contemplating climbing back into bed to nuzzle the exposed part of his husband's neck.

Steve read the newspaper because he was the type of person to read the newspaper on a Saturday morning. He meticulously read each article as he beat out eggs for breakfast. In these quiet moments his mind would drift backwards. Some of his earliest memories were of his mother spooning boiled cabbage out of warped metal pot. Some of his favorite memories were of the companionate silences while splitting hardtack with Bucky and the Howling Commandos on the frozen fields of France. No matter where or when he was and no matter who he was with, there was always breakfast.

A pair of feet drew him back to the present and Tony's calloused fingers ran across his back on the way to the coffee. He wore a black wife beater and pajama pants his hair all akimbo and the sharp lines of his goatee smudged by morning scruff. Tony drummed his fingertips on the arc reactor while none too gently jamming a mug into the coffee carafe.

Kisses woke Tony more effectively than caffeine, ergo, Tony was roused to a state of semi-wakefulness when Steve leaned over and pecked him chastely on the lips. "Morning," said Steve sweetly.

"Morning," said Tony, wanting to prolong the contact "What's cooking?"

"Eggs," supplied Steve, portioning servings out onto three plates, "toast and turkey bacon."

"Turkey bacon," said Tony half sarcastic, half serious, "what happened to normal bacon?"

"Tony, at your age it's important to watch out for your heart health."

Tony scoffed and rolled his eyes. "My heart has shards of shrapnel six inches from it. I think it can handle a little cholesterol." Tony bit down on the bacon while he carried his plate to the table, contemplating crunching. "As not-bacon goes, this is edible." Another crunch. "Where's Peter?"

"Steve opened his mouth to answer, but then it clicked shut. He looked up curiously, it just now occurring to him that Tony made his appearance before their son. "I…don't know," said Steve. "I thought he'd be awake already." Steve stepped around Tony and walked into the living room, wondering if Peter had slipped past him and was slumped into the sofa watching television. The couch was unoccupied.

"Friday," Tony said, when Steve returned to the kitchen alone, "where's Peter?"

"Peter, is still in bed, boss," supplied Friday.

"I'll go get him," said Tony, some of his sleepiness returning, and left Steve to set the table.

Peter's bedroom door was slightly ajar, so Tony stuck his head in, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. "Petey," said Tony, loudly addressing the patch of tousled hair that barely poked from the bedsheets. "Come on, son. Get up. Breakfast is waiting. It's eggs, toast and not-bacon."

Peter mumbled something and shifted around in his sheets. Tony, assuming Peter was rousing himself, turned on a heel and returned to his not-bacon.

"You know," said Tony, scraping the last of his eggs into his toast and eating it in one bite, "I can taste the difference."

"No you can't," said Steve, "it doesn't taste that bad."

"I didn't say the difference was bad," Tony replied.

Steve's half smile created a dimple in his cheek, knowing this was closest to a compliment about his grocery selection he was going to get. "I'm glad you approve." Steve's eyes drifted over to the third chair at the table, unoccupied, food cold and untouched.

"Guess somebody's not getting not-bacon," said Tony, slightly clipped.

Steve sighed, pushing himself away from the table, taking Peter's plate with him. Steve heard Tony fall into line behind him and they walked down to Peter's room, pushing the door open all the way. Wind whipped through the open window. Other than that there was no sound, no movement. There was no music, and the automatic lighting had been disabled. Peter's alarm clock was on the ground by the bed. Peter had completely retreated under the covers, neither a hair nor limb exposed. Steve could barely detect his son's light breathing, muffled in his pillow.

"Peter," said Steve, softly approaching. Steve reached down into the bedsheets and found Peter's shoulder, gently shaking it. "Peter, it's time to wake up. Peter."

The teenager barely made a sound and shifted away from his father's touch. Steve's brow furrowed and he pulled the blankets away, exposing Peter's face. His son's round, dark eyes were glassy and unfocused. There was a thin sheen of sweat along his hairline. Peter's lips had lost their coloring, but his cheeks had a flush to them.

"Peter," said Steve, his voice taking on an air of concern. "Hey, what's wrong?" Steve sat down on Peter's bed and brushed Peter's hair away from his forehead. Peter shifted towards the touch, but little more than that. Steve bent down and pressed his lips to Steve's temple. "He feels warm," said Steve, looking up at Tony.

"Friday," said Tony, "vitals."

"Peter's temperature reads at 99.8 degrees Fahrenheit," the AI supplied.

It wasn't bad, but it wasn't nothing either. "I'll go get the Day-Quil, said Tony. He returned moments later with two orange gel pills and a glass of water. "Here you go, sicko," said Tony, trying to instill some lightness to the situation.

Peter fumbled with the glass and choked his way through swallowing the pills. Beads of water leaked over his lips and dribbled down his chin. Steve held the glass to keep it from shaking. Peter perked up a little after that. His eyes cleared and he was able to focus on his parents. "Thanks," he mumbled, his voice muggy.

Steve thought Peter sounded pathetic and resisted gathering his reedy body up and holding him like when he was five. "I've left your breakfast on the bedside table. Try to eat something if you feel up to it."

"M'kay," said Peter, already withering back into the pillows, pulling the bed sheets about him.

Tony lightly clapped Peter on the shoulder and kissed the crown of his head. "Feel better, kid."

"We'll come back and check on you," added Steve following his husband out of the bedroom.

Steve and Tony resumed their typical Saturday activities. Tony went to his lab and tinkered with his suits, Bruce, the only other permanent resident of the Tower, popping in for a few minutes. Steve went on his run through Central Park with Sam. Both men mentioned that Peter was feeling sick, but it was just a throwaway add on to the conversation; nothing to be worried about. Steve returned home in the early afternoon, kicking his shoes off in the entryway and walking barefoot to the living room. He collapsed onto the couch, his body enveloped by the cool Corinthian leather. He tilted his head back into the pillows enjoying that satisfying soreness of exercised muscles. Steve half dozed while he stared at the ceiling, chasing down a stray thought he couldn't quite catch, but was roused when another body fell on top of his. The sharp lines of Tony's goatee brushed against his clean-shaven cheek. There was grease beneath his fingers and he smelled like machine oil and lubricant.

"You smell," said Steve, not entirely displeased with the scent.

"So do you," Tony almost purred. "We could both hop in the shower, get cleaned up, and then get dirty in completely other ways." Tony pressed his mouth to Steve's, getting all the more excited by his own idea.

"Peter is sick in bed," said Steve around Tony's lips.

"He'll sleep right through it," said Tony, undeterred. "He hasn't made a sound all day."

Steve let out a light breath and bemusedly let his head fall back onto the pillow, allowing Tony to tempt him. Tony's adventurous mouth dropped down to Steve's neck, finding that sweet spot in the slope of his collarbone and nipped it. Steve felt Tony's thumb hook around the elastic of his exercise sweats while the other hand slipped under his shirt, running over his abs. Steve shifted underneath Tony's weight and wrapped one hand around the nape of his neck, threading his fingers through Tony's hair. With the other, Steve traveled down the line of Tony's spine, gathered the hem of his shirt and exposed the small of his back. Steve rested his hand on the olive toned skin and felt more than heard Tony's small moan against his skin. Steve had a brief flicker of worry that Peter would hear them, but he brushed it away. Tony was probably right; Peter hadn't made a peep all morning.

And that was exactly the point. The train of thought Steve was struggling the catch suddenly collided with his brain. No television, no computer, no video games, no nothing came from Peter's room. Even when sick, Peter was never one to just laze about. Typically by the time his medicine kicked in Peter was propped up in bed watching a movie, listening to music, or eating an entire bag of potato chips. Unless, Peter was sicker than they realized.

"Let me just check on Peter first," said Steve, shifting out from underneath Tony. The inventor seemed to be following a similar line of thought and picked himself up off the sofa and followed Steve. The silence of the bedroom was even more deafening up close as Steve swung open the door and was promptly rooted to the spot.

Peter's head and shoulders were exposed, revealing a triangular shaped patch of sweat on his chest, seeping though his hoodie. His skin was so pallid his veins were showing, but his face was rosy and flushed across his face and down his neck.

"Friday," Steve heard Tony choke out behind him.

"Peter's temperature reads at 102.3 degrees Fahrenheit," said the AI.

That jumpstarted Steve and he purposefully strode across the rom while Tony retreated to the bathroom in search of a washcloth. Steve crawled up onto the bed, pawing at Peter. Peter's head fell into his lap. "Peter, baby, can you hear me?" His fingers felt clumsy as he struggled to adjust his son.

Peter's face scrunched up and his eyes cracked open, noticeably bloodshot "Pops?" Peter whispered, his voice rattling out of his chest.

Steve nodded stiffly. "I'm here. I'm here."

"Hurts," Peter whimpered. His body seemed taut as a wire and was reluctant to move.

"Where, son? What hurts?" Steve prompted, but Peter had already drifted back into his delirium.

"Tony, Peter's towels are under the sink," Steve called out, vaguely wondering why it was taking so long to find a wash cloth. He turned his attention back to his son. Pearls of sweat had gathered along his forehead and he was breathing rather deliberately. Upon closer inspection, Steve noticed more sweat spots darkening parts of Peter's hoodie. "Well, let's get you into a change of clothes first," said Steve, grabbing at the bottom of Peter's hoodie.

The sound that came from Peter made Steve's hands shoot back as if he had been shocked. Steve looked at his hands and back to where he touched Peter. Suddenly, he noticed something different about one of perspiration marks under Peter's right arm. It was a rust colored brown and had a splattered appearance to it like…like a blood stain.

Both careful and determined, Steve pulled up Peter's hoodie, exposing his side. He about gagged. Peter had a gash on his side clumsily sutured together with wide stitching. Some of the skin was splitting apart and had a white yellow pus on the edges. New blood mingled with old in dried rivulets that tracked over his skin. Fanning out from the wound was a layer of black and purple bruises.

"Tony," Steve managed to get out, his own throat strangling him. "Tony." Not wanting to be physically parted from Peter, Steve craned his body around to catch a glimpse of his husband. Tony was standing in the threshold of the bathroom, his hand still gripping the knob. From around Tony's shoulders, Steve saw the crimson stained sink and bloody hand print smeared in the center of the mirror. Rosy footprints stumbled drunkenly from the shower, staining the bathmat. "Tony!"

Tony stiffly turned. His eyes widened and his mouth moved in vain attempt to speak. Steve looked at him helplessly. "Help me with him."

Tony practically tumbled over to the bed and grabbed at the blankets as Steve gingerly lifted Peter, stripping the bed to nothing but the fitted sheet.

Peter's yelp dissolved into a weak moan as he turned around in Steve' arms. "Peter. Peter, stop," Steve soothed, gripping Peter tighter even as he readjusted him on the bed. "God, what happened to you?"

"Friday," said Tony, at last. "Call Bruce. Tell him it's an emergency."

"I already took the liberty, sir." The AI said. "Dr. Banner is in the elevator."

Steve felt some tightness ease out of his chest, though not by much. "Hang on, baby. Bruce is on his way to get you patched up." He nestled a kiss into Peter's hair.

Steve looked across the bed at Tony, who was staring pointedly at nothing. Peter's pale hand was gripped in both of his and he ran his thumbs over Peter's fingers in a way that seemed to sooth himself more than their son. "Tony," said Steve, gently. "You didn't know."

Tony tilted his head as if that didn't make any difference. "Why didn't he say anything?" Steve heard Tony's voice go from concerned to frustrated. "How did this even happen?"

Their conversation was cut off by the sharp ding of the elevator door. "We're in here," Steve called out.

Moments later Bruce, wearing the sweats from his morning meditation, walked quickly into the bedroom. "Hey, what's the emergen— What happened?"

"We don't know," said Steve. "We thought he was sick this morning but when we went to check on him we found him like this."

Tony scooted over to give Bruce access to the bed, but he didn't relinquish his grip on Peter's hand. Both parents watched Bruce gently probe at the wound, prompting Peter to groan and hazily look at them before his eyes rolled back into his head. Bruce whistled low. "Did he stitch this himself?" Tony's eyes shut and his lips thinned out.

"How bad is it?" Steve pressed, anxious to get to the meat of the matter.

"Not as bad as it could be," supplied Bruce, "but it's a good thing you caught it when you did. This could have gone septic quick." Steve felt his stomach roll. Septicemia was nothing to be sniggered about. He blinked away flashbacks of the sequestered and ill supplied medical tents of the units he passed though, boys as young as Peter seizing in death throes as their own blood poisoned them. "What do you need?" he said to Bruce.

"Just hold him," said Bruce dropping his medical bag on the bed. "This isn't going to be fun for him."

Bruce pulled out a bottle of peroxide, a stack of gauze and a pair of medical tweezers before snapping on a pair of gloves. The reveal of every item made Steve readjust his grip on Peter to the point that his son was practically pulled into his lap by the time Bruce reached out to him. Tony all the while stayed still and silent at the head of the bed, curled up onto himself almost as if he was afraid to touch Peter. All the same, he was holding onto Peter's arm in a vice like grip.

"Let's see," Bruce murmured gently prodding at the abused skin. Peter whimpered and weakly turned his head into Steve's chest. "I need to get the stiches out and clean the wound." Bruce leaned in with a pair of small surgical scissors, his eyes squinting through his glasses. "What was he doing last night?" asked Bruce, both inquisitive and conversational over the small snips of the scissors.

Steve wracked his frazzled brain. "Peter came home from school and then…and then…"

"Peter had a physics project with Ned Leeds and Gwen Stacey," Tony rattled off robotically. "He texted and said that he was having dinner over at the Stacey's—What?" Tony asked when Bruce made a face.

The wound had fallen open now that the crude stiches had been removed. Bruce gently ran a finger over the fold of flesh "This is a knife wound."

"What?" said Steve sharply. "He craned his body to look over Peter's. His mouth hung open a little as he tried to process the gash in Peter's abdomen, sluggish blood and frothing pus pumping over Bruce's fingers. Steve felt his world turn sideways. "God," he choked out, unable to look away from his son's side. "God…Tony. Was he mugged?" he managed at last.

Seizing something to do, Tony rocketed off the bed and wrenched Peter's backpack off the floor. He jammed his whole arm into the bag, systematically yanking out Peter's wallet, cell phone and school books.

Steve divided his attention between Tony and Bruce peeling open Peter's wound to flush out the infection. "He's going to be okay, Steve."

Steve blinked and tilted his head to keep from staring at Bruce. "That doesn't explain why Peter felt like he had to do surgery on himself. W—"

Steve was cut off when Peter's backpack crashed to the ground. Steve turned his head towards Tony a reprimand cocked in his throat. It died behind Steve's teeth however when he saw what was hanging limply in Tony's hands. At first he didn't recognize the damp and crumpled costume. He'd never seen it in person, only on the 10 o'clock news escaping out of burning buildings, catching cars, and being punched, stabbed and shot at from street thugs to super villains. Steve watched as Tony ran his fingers over the battered blue and red, his fist going through a split in the very thin suit.

Then, Bruce began cleaning out the wound with slow pumps of peroxide. Peter _wailed_.

Steve didn't know if it was the fact that he was caught off guard or if Peter's adrenaline was in overdrive, but Peter _moved_ him. Peter's back arched off the bed even as Bruce struggled to hold him down, his heels kicking the footboard. Peter's thrashing caused Bruce to jab the bottle of peroxide into his raw flesh, making him scream all the more.

Steve got his arms back around his boy and gently pinned his chest to the bed. Peter flung out his arm trying to pull what was undoubtedly liquid fire out of his side, until Steve wrapped his hand around Peter's wiry wrist and caged it against Peter's heaving chest.

"Stop," Peter managed to get out before groaning through his teeth.

"I know, baby, I know," said Steve kissing Peter's hairline. "It'll be over soon, I promise. Just hold onto me."

Peter's knee jerked back and almost clocked Bruce in the face. Bruce leaned his elbow into Peter thigh to try to hold him still, but it didn't help. "I can't stitch him if he's fighting me like this."

Steve tried to reach down to keep Peter's knees still but that only freed Peter's upper half and the teenager almost got loose from his father's arms before Steve snatched him back to his chest.

"Tony," said Steve, carding Peter's hair as he yelped again. "Tony."

Tony was lost in his own head. His fingers ran over the raised black lines that ran like webbing though the uniform. He stretched the material taut across the back of his hand and swore he could see his skin through it. His fingers once again stumbled over the hole. He pressed the ragged edges between his fingers wanting to tear it apart.

"Tony, please," Steve basically begged. Fresh hot blood was seeping over Bruce's hands, staining the sheets in splotches.

Tony jolted, his brain kicking him back to the present moment. Stiffly, with the costume still clenched in his hands, Tony sat at the foot of the bed and laid is arm across Peter's knees.

Peter had stilled somewhat, going to a place in his brain where the pain couldn't follow him. Steve looked down at Peter, his face turned into Steve's abdomen. The one brown eye he could see stared at nothing. Peter's body still jerked as Bruce made a tight line of neat stiches across his skin, never loosening his grip on Steve's shirt.

Steve stole a glance down at Tony. His thumb was making small, rapid circles on Peter's kneecap. Tony wasn't looking at Peter and seemed intent on not making eye contact with anyone in the room. Steve wanted to say something to him, anything to draw Tony out of wherever he was. But, all Steve had to do was look down at Tony's white knuckled grip on Peter's costume to know he didn't have the first idea what to say.

Peter moaned as Bruce taped a thick pad of gauze to Peter's side. The one eye that Steve could see rolled around in its socket before a lid finally closed down over it. "That should do it," said Bruce, straightening and stripping off his gloves. "Just let him sleep. He'll wake up on his own eventually."

Tony, seeing that his duty was done, shot off the bed and strode purposefully out of the room, the feet of Peter's suit skimming along the carpet behind him. The bedroom door shut with a snap.

Steve didn't realize how hard he was gripping Peter until he let go. Peter murmured in his sleep at the loss of contact and attempted to turn over, his mouth forming a grimace before giving up. "Don't let him cover it up much with hoodies or blankets," Bruce advised. "That needs to breathe a bit."

Steve nodded jerkily. "He'll be alright though, won't he?" His voice came out as a croak.

"Peter may have a bit of a fever from any leftover infection, but it should be nothing compared to what it could have been."

Steve made to shake Bruce's hand, but stopped short when he saw a spattering of Peter's blood on Bruce's wrist. Steve's hand hung in the air for half a beat before clapping Bruce on the shoulder. "Thank you, Bruce," said Steve. Suddenly, Peter's secret strangled him like a dead albatross. "Tony and I would really appreciate it if you would…you know…"

"I won't tell Fury," said Bruce, "or anyone else until you and Tony figure this out."

Steve turned his head towards the closed door. Tony. He looked back at his sleeping son, pale as the sheets, but not as pale as the bandages taped to his side. Steve suddenly felt tired and it barely past noon.

"Steve?" Steve looked at Bruce who was looking down at Peter. "Steve, it's been months…"

"I know," answered Steve.

Bruce let out a breath and gathered his medical bag. "Well," he said in the heavy silence. "Buzz me if he gets worse again." Bruce closed the bedroom door softer than Tony did, almost as if he was trying to creep out without Tony noticing.

Steve felt his chest relax for what felt like the first time in hours. He sat down on the edge of Peter's bed and put his face in his hands, breathing deep, attempting to release the tension in his body through each exhale. Steve looked up when Peter shifted and shivered. The teenager was wearing sweatpants and nothing else, looking thin, miserable and cold. His fitted sheet would need to be thrown out after this. Steve slipped some socks onto Peter's feet and draped a bedsheet over him, careful to make sure his side could breathe. Peter cracked his eyes open and looked hazily around. "Pops," he said. His voice was wrecked.

Steve shushed him, petting his dark hair as he did so. "Just go to sleep, Peter. You need it. Dad and I will be here when you wake up."

Steve didn't know if Peter fell back asleep because Steve gave him permission or because Peter's body couldn't hold out any longer. Either way, Peter sank back into the pillows and drifted off. Steve continued to sit there, playing with Peter's hair, matching his strokes to his son's light breathing. Steve bent down and kissed the crown of Peter's head, breathing deeply. For Steve, Peter had never really lost that new baby smell. "Oh, Peter," said Bruce against his scalp. "What have you been doing?"

Steve found Tony in the kitchen. Peter's suit was thrown onto the counter a toe hanging into the sink. For half a moment, Steve thought Tony had tried to shove it down the garbage disposal. Tony was sitting at the island. In one had he was holding the cowl that went with the costume. His thumb circled the perimeter of the wide eye pieces. Near his other hand sat a tumbler containing several fingers of scotch. "Tony," said Steve, gently announcing his presence. Steve padded across the kitchen and sat down next to his husband. Tony didn't look at Steve. He didn't seem to be looking at anything. Steve rested his hand over the hand that held the mask, worrying the wedding ring he found there. "Tony," said Steve, "what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking we should ground him until he's dead," said Tony, darkly.

"I'm…not disagreeing with you about grounding him," said Steve, "but, seriously Tony, what are we going to do? Peter…he's Spid—"

"Don't say it Steve," said Tony, pushing himself roughly out of his chair. "Don't fucking say it." Tony circled around the island, tumbler cupped in his palm, but never taking it to his lips.

"Language," said Steve, still sitting in his chair.

"Fuck your language," said Tony deliberately. "I think given the situation I'm allowed a few fucking curse words." Steve didn't say anything as Tony continued to pace the kitchen. Tony snared the uniform with his fist, practically shaking it in Steve's face. "It's spandex, Steve, spandex. Our son— _our son_ —with neither our knowledge nor consent—has been beating up bank robbers and catching buses in a goddamned leotard."

Steve stayed silent, his temple braced with the tips of his fingers as Tony continued, unfettered. "We watch him on the news after Peter goes to bed. Wait, excuse me, when we _think_ Peter's gone to bed. We watched Otto Octavius throw him through a building in our boxers with toothbrushes hanging out of our mouths."

Steve flinched when Tony slammed his tumbler down on the island, tapping the lip of the glass and talking so quickly Steve wasn't sure if he was speaking to him or to himself. "The kid can't even drive a car…How does he get in and out of the Tower? All those times he came home with cuts and bruises…Was it bullies? Was he ever bullied? What else has he been lying to us about? Fucking _say something_!"

Steve jumped at suddenly being addressed like that. "What do you want me to say?"

"Shout, scream, something. Anything to indicate you are on my side."

"Tony, of course I'm on your side."

"Then why aren't you angry?"

"I am angry!" The pitch of his volume surprised even Steve. Tony's face went slack and he started back a bit. Steve laced his fingers together, shoulders trembling, and let out a long, steady breath through his nose. "I am angry. I'm angry, and hurt, and confused, and have just as many questions as you about when and how and why this happened. But I don't have the answers to those questions and neither do you. All we can do is wait till Peter wakes up and ask him."

The kitchen was silent, save for the sound of air rushing in and out of Tony's chest. He dragged his hand heavily over his face. Steve could hear the slight scratch of his goatee. When Tony looked up again his eyes were red and glassy. "He could have…" Tony's voice choked him. "Last night…who knows how many times before. Every time we left for a mission, every time we sent him off to school; that could have been the last time we ever saw him. And we would have never known. Steve, we'd have never known."

Steve swung himself out of his seat and swiftly crossed the kitchen, pulling Tony to his chest. Steve felt his shirt dampen. Steve pressed his chin into Tony's scalp, swaying them back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Remind me again that we're good parents," murmured Tony, muffled by Steve's chest.

"We're good parents," said Steve, chuckling in spite of everything, "and at the end of the day, Peter's a good kid, too."

Steve didn't count how many minutes he quietly soothed Tony in the middle of their kitchen. Eventually, Tony peeled away, sniffling sharply. The tumbler was still balanced in his hand. "He's still grounded," said Tony, tipping the scotch down the sink.

When Peter came to he felt like he had been hit by a truck, and he had in fact been hit by a truck, so he knew he wasn't exaggerating. Peter felt hot and sticky and the inside of his mouth was so dry his tongue was sticking to the inside of his cheeks. The ceiling fan made him nauseous but at the same time he couldn't look away. When he finally pulled his cracked lips apart the sound he made was a garbled moan. A head filled up his vision. When Peter's eyes adjusted, Steve's features came into focus. "Pops?" Peter asked, muddled.

"Hey, baby," said Steve gently. His hand cupped the side of Peter's face. "Are you with us?"

Peter stared hard at Steve's nose to ground him while his body reoriented itself. "Thirsty," was all he managed.

Steve picked up a glass of water off of Peter's nightstand. Peter was vaguely aware that Steve was also angling him up off the bed, practically cradling him with one arm. "Don't gulp it down," said Steve.

Peter tried to do so, but when the water hit his mouth he drank so greedily Steve had to tip the glass away so Peter didn't drown himself. Peter chased the lip of the cup, reaching up to move Steve's hand to tilt the glass back down to him. His whole side seized and Peter hissed, his face screwing up and causing the water in the glass to spill down his neck. "It's okay, Peter. It's okay. Let me help." Peter thought his pops was being awfully quiet.

Peter's awareness expanded. Steve was sitting on his bed with him, settling Peter back into a mini mountain of pillows. Tony was sitting in Peter's desk chair, an ankle crossed over his knee, fiddling with a slender black box about the size of a flash stick. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky, making the cityscape look like it had been covered in a layer of quivering mercury. There were dirty plates by his bedroom door and his dad had his tablet propped against Peter's computer. It looked like they had camped out in there all day. "Was I sick?" asked Peter.

"You had a bad fever. It's gone now," said Steve.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" The tone of Tony's voice made Peter's sluggish spidey-sense jolt. Memories rushed back in a wave, making Peter suddenly alert. He lifted his arm and saw the bandages taped around his middle; a much better patch job than the one he had the night before. "Oh," said Peter, running a finger gingerly over the wrappings. Peter looked up at Tony, a lie ready made behind his lips. He went through a bad part of town. The guy wanted his watch. There had been a knife, but he was breaking curfew and he didn't want to get in trouble. But, then Peter saw the flash stick Tony was holding wasn't a flash stick. Peter felt the blood rush out of his face as he watched his dad activate his web slinger. All his manufactured excuses slid out in a single word. "Shit."

Tony drew the webbing out of the device, the sticky cording attached to his index finger. He lifted an eyebrow at his son. "My thoughts exactly."

Peter twisted around to look at Steve. His pops looked at him evenly before readjusting him so as not to strain his injury.

"Peter," said Tony, almost lounging in his son's chair, "do you know what septicemia is?"

"No," said Peter, his voice sounding as small as possible.

"Your father told me many a tale about it," Tony clipped. "It's blood poisoning, which happens when a wound isn't properly cared for like, for example, when you try to sew up a stab wound while sitting in your bathroom sink and then deciding to take a nap."

Peter remained mute. He didn't know what to say even if he wanted to speak.

"I hope you never have to experience watching your child have emergency surgery in their own bed, holding them down while it was happening, listening to them scream and begging for it to stop." Tony cut himself off abruptly. Tony pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, before continuing. "I also hope," there was a dark timbre to Tony's voice, "that you never have to find out that your child was stabbed while moonlighting as a masked vigilante beating up bad guys with his bare hands in a lycra onesie."

Peter stared down at his knees, wishing he could melt through the floor. "Peter," said Steve. "Do you have anything to say?"

"I'm sorry," Peter mumbled.

"Sorry that you put your father and I through this or sorry that you were caught?" Tony demanded.

Peter flinched and folded up onto himself. "I didn't want you to worry. My powers usually heal me. I didn't think it was going to be a big deal."

"Well, kiddo, it was a big deal," said Tony, "you were about an hour away from being helicoptered to Manhattan Metro."

"So it's powers," said Steve, getting to the meat of the matter, "not the suit."

Tony scoffed. "Of course it's not the suit. Look at this thing." Peter wilted at the sad sight of his uniform crumpled in his father's fist before he tossed it back onto the desk. "You'd have more protection in a paper bag." Peter felt his face flush, but he wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or the spike of anger that shot up his spine. "I've taken care of myself just fine," Peter muttered.

"Tell that to your bathroom," Tony countered. "Did Norman Bates stop by?"

Peter tried to speak, but all he did was cough into his hand. Peter heard Tony sigh before pressing the half drunk glass of water into Peter's hand. Steve reached forward, but Peter batted him away, sipping on the water with the bottom of the glass braced against his chest.

Steve dropped his hand back into his lap. "When and how did you get your powers," Steve rattled off with bullet point precision, "Do you think it's some kind of mutation? You're at the right age. Do you think we should talk to Charles?"

"We are not bringing Xavier into this," said Tony, cutting Steve off.

"Tony, we don't know what we are dealing with. He can help."

"I'm not sending our son to a school that keeps a Blackhawk under their basketball court for their own super powered glee club."

"Just because Peter has a mutation doesn't mean that he has to go to the Institute."

"It's not a mutation," said Peter, looking at the half melted ice in the bottom of the glass, "It was a lab accident."

It was as if room had been vacuum-sealed, sucking all sound from it. "What?" said Tony, the sharp syllable punctuating the silence.

"Peter, you know better than to mess around with Bruce's lab. Why on earth would you do such a thing?" said Steve.

"It wasn't Uncle Bruce's lab," said Peter, falling deeper into the hole he had willfully dug.

"What other lab do you have access to, aside from mine—which, for the record—has been revoked, considering that's the only place you could have made these," said Tony, pointing sharply at the web slingers.

Peter had to drag the words out of his throat. "Norman Osborn's."

Peter heard Steve let out a little breath. Tony went rigid for a moment before a mask of restrained politeness he used for government agents and paparazzi slid onto his face. Smoothly he stood and took measured steps over to a corner of the bedroom, his hands steepled over his mouth, which was set in a thin even line. Tony's eyes closed and a nerve danced in his temple. Steve looked only slightly better, raking a hand through his short hair. "Pops," Peter began, supplicatingly.

"Peter," said Steve, both worried and stern, "just…what happened?"

"It was a field trip for biology class. Dr. Curt Connors had recently partnered with Mr. Osborn," Tony scoffed at the honorific as Peter soldiered on. "He was holding a seminar for the kids the in advanced bio-chem classes. I was thumbing through his research and I saw…something he wasn't supposed to have."

"Was it Extremis," asked Tony from across the room, his eyes still cold. Tony suspected Oscorp might have bought A.I.M's intellectual property when it crumbled, but he could never prove it.

"No," said Peter, "the formula looked more like the serum. You know, _the_ serum." Peter looked over at Steve.

Steve bristled. An imperfect serum was cataclysmic. Additionally, the serum could only be found within Steve's organic tissue, so, yet again, Norman Osborn and Dr. Connors had found a way, and that was just violating. Steve suppressed a prickle of anger, tuning back into Peter's narration.

"So I sort of broke into Dr. Connors' lab, but I didn't stay in there long I swear. I just wanted to get an eyeful to tell you about it. He had a few lizards in cages and this huge Plexiglas wall of spiders. My best guess is that one of them got loose and, well, bit me. I didn't really think much about it. I felt sick that night; hot, achy, like I was getting the flu. When I woke up…" Peter tapered off and vaguely gestured at himself. "The best I've been able to figure out is that whatever was in that spider…enhanced me.

"In what ways," said Steve, bullying himself to keep questioning. Tony remained quiet.

Peter drained the glass he was holding; suddenly it looked like Peter was about to drop it. Steve leaned forward quickly, worried that Peter was about to pass out again. But, the glass didn't fall. It hung off the tips of Peter's fingers as if glued there. Peter wriggled his open palm for added affect. Tentatively, Steve reached out and tugged, but the glass actively resisted. A crease formed in Steve's forehead and he tugged harder. The glass still stayed. "How are you doing this?" asked Steve slowly.

"Microfibers on my hands and feet covered in additional setules," Peter rattled off encyclopedically. Even Tony lifted an eyebrow. "Umm, it's how spiders…you know, stick to stuff." Peter shifted, uncomfortable with talking about his secret superpowers with his parents so nonchalantly, but he powered through, seemingly unable to stem the floodgate. "Spiders can also lift 170 times their own body weight so I can life about 32,000 pounds."

"How did you figure that one out?"

Peter curled his fingers around the glass and brought it to his lap, staring blankly at it. "I caught the wing of a 747 once," he said, "and I use your weights when you and Dad are on missions."

Steve was about to speak again, but he was cut off by laughter. Steve turned and saw Tony was chuckling into his hand. His other hand was at his side, forming a white knuckled fist. "You realize you're grounded right?" said Tony through his chortling. "I hope that's not lost on you in all of this."

Peter nodded numbly. "That's fair."

"Fair?" Tony almost snarled, "That's fucking benevolent. You know what's fair? Actually trusting you when you say you're in your room or out with Gwen or visiting your aunt; believing you when you've been lying through your goddamned teeth for months."

"Tony," said Steve, "do not swear at him."

"Can it, Cap," said Tony, riding full speed through his rage. "Were you ever planning on telling us? Please, run through your scenario. Were you going to sit us down with a sandwich? Were you going to write it webbing on the side of some building? Or were you just going to let the secret spill itself when Steve and I went to identify your body?" Peter flinched as Tony petered out, talking more to himself that anyone else in the room. "Christ, Fury even wanted to make you an Avenger."

"I'm going to be an Avenger?" said Peter, perking up.

Steve groaned internally while Tony tossed him a sardonic sideways glance. "Dying and leaving us devastated and that's what he latches onto." Tony whips is head back to Peter, stalking towards the bed, seizing the suit as he did. "Well let me be abundantly clear." Tony practically shook the uniform in Peter's face. "This is done." Tony turned, but felt a tug before he could go any farther. Peter's hand shot out and snared the sleeve. "Peter, let go of the suit."

"No."

Steve caught that tone, the way Peter pushed out his chin, and the way Tony angled his torso, brown eyes flashing. "Let go," said Tony quietly.

Peter was fighting a losing battle. Peter was sick and in bed and Tony was Tony, yet Peter still tried to keep abreast. "You can't," said Peter, though with much less conviction. Tony jerked hard on the fabric, but Peter wrapped the suit around his wrist. "Taking the suit from me won't stop me. I went a few days in sweat pants and a ski mask."

"Peter, don't push me or I'll bring you into a brave new world where you can't so much as sneeze without my say so."

Steve closed his eyes. This was going nowhere good. "Peter, please give the suit to your father."

"Please," Peter's voice wobbled in a way that broke Steve's heart. "I have to."

"Why do you have to?" asked Steve, "why do you feel like you have to fight?"

"Why did you," Peter rounded on Steve. "You had no business trying to join the army. Yet, you tried over and over again because you had an obligation, a responsibility, because you said your life wasn't worth more than any other man's."

"The key point being that we were at war and I was a grown man volunteering, not a teenager who had an accident."

"But, when you got that chance," Peter pushed on, "they made you a mascot. Is that really what you wanted with what you had been given?"

Steve paused; Peter's words striking true with the soldier forced to be a showman, but didn't want to give credence to Peter's argument. "It wasn't what I wanted, but it's what they needed. They needed the man just as much as they needed the symbol. They needed to believe in Captain America."

"This isn't a discussion about wants or needs," interjected Tony, "at the end of the day you _aren't_." Now, give me the suit Peter."

"You promised!" Peter yelled to the point that his voice cracked. "You promised!"

Tony dropped his hands to the bed in exasperation. "What are you talking about?"

"You promised him you wouldn't make weapons again. After Afghanistan. You promised him you wouldn't go back. You promised him you wouldn't waste this."

The silence lay hot and heavy on the room, broken by Peter's watery breathing. For a half a second, Peter's face aged and he was lying against a pile of plastic weave bags, both bleeding from the gut. Tony blinked and Peter was looking at him with pinked, placating eyes. "How can I go back?" whimpered Peter. "How can I go back when I promised Uncle Ben."

Steve glanced up at Tony, wondering if he was going to say anything. Neither of them had ever met Ben Parker. He had been killed before Steve and Tony had adopted Peter, but photographs of him still decorated the house Peter had one or two memories of living in. When Steve had asked, May told him Peter had been in the back seat.

"Peter," said Steve, measuring his words. "I know you must think about…that…a lot. But, you were barely three years old. That's not on you to try to make that right."

"Peter hiccoughed a little, trying to catch his breath. "Uncle Ben died when he needed someone." Peter gestured to the window framing the New York skyline. "They need someone. They need me, like they need you." Peter sank back onto his pillows, energy spent, looking like a scrapper kid from Brooklyn who didn't know when to quit, or some California-bred billionaire who would save the world with a box of scraps if he had to. Tony shot off the bed, sans suit, and walked quickly out of the bedroom.

Steve's tongue turned in his mouth, tumbling over what he was trying to say. After a while, he gathered Peter to his chest, pressing his cheek to Peter's forehead. "You're getting warm again," he commented.

Peter said nothing and Steve couldn't see his face. Peter curled himself into a tighter ball against Steve's body, tucking the crown of his head beneath Steve's chin. "I'm sorry I lied to you," Peter said softly. "It got to the point where I thought it would've been worse to tell you than to not."

If Steve didn't have enhanced hearing, he was sure he wouldn't have been able to understand Peter as he continued to mumble. "Wanted to tell you. Wanted to make you and Dad proud."

Steve's arms caged Peter so quickly Peter made a small noise of surprise. "Your dad and I are so proud of you," the fierceness of Steve's voice muffled by Peter's hair, "so proud. We love you. Every day we are in awe that we found a way to be your fathers." Steve pulled away, but just a little, just enough to tip Peter's chin and lift his eyes level with his own. "You believe me?" asked Steve.

Peter gulped and nodded jerkily, his head falling into Steve's neck. Steve was practically cradling him, threading his fingers through Peter's dark, wild hair, both bodies rocking each other. "Baby boy," Steve whispered, like a mantra, "baby boy."

For a moment, Steve thought Peter had fallen asleep against him until Peter yawned. "I'm tired."

"Then go to sleep," said Steve, "you still need to heal."

As Steve eased Peter back into his bed, Steve took hold of the suit, feeling the almost instantaneous grip of Peter's fingers. "Peter," said Steve, not wanting to get everyone worked up again. "You still lied to us, you're still grounded, and I'm still taking your suit."

"Pops, please," said Peter, the fight having long left him.

"I'm asking you to give it to me, Peter," said Steve, "don't make me take it from you." Peter held on for a minute, and then another, until, reluctantly, he relinquished him grip. "Thank you," said Steve, pulling the suit away before Peter could grab for it again. Steve passed a pill bottle into Peter's empty hand. "Take this, it'll keep your fever down."

"It'll be gone on it's own by morning," said Peter.

Steve laughed a little if only to break the tension. "Probably, but, humor me."

Peter unscrewed the cap and dumped two pills in his mouth, dry swallowing. The teen's eyelids were drooping, losing his battle with exhaustion. Steve pulled Peter's comforter up to his chin, tucking him in like he was little. Steve stole a kiss while he was stooped over his son, Peter's eyes already closed. "I love you," Steve whispered, almost reverently. Again, if it weren't for Steve's enhanced hearing, he would have missed the 'Love you, too' as he walked out the door.

The hallway from Peter's bedroom seemed longer than usual. Steve took the moment to himself to examine the suit, watching how the gap in its side stretched when he pulled the thin material tight. There really wasn't much there. What was there in spades was all the effort Peter had taken to make it. The corner of his mouth turned upwards.

It just as quickly fell away when Steve looked up and saw Tony sitting on the arm of the sofa, his arms braced on either side of him, his head titled down to the floor with an indecipherable expression. Silently, Steve deposited Peter's uniform into Tony's lap. Without looking at it Tony's fingers knitted themselves into the material. Steve fiddled with the toe.

"Tony," said Steve, coaxing the words out of his own mouth, "sweetheart, I think we should—"

"Steve." Steve's mouth clicked shut, bracing for a fight. Tony wasn't looking at him, but Steve saw his eyes were over bright, pupils blown. "You're going to train him. You're going to train him harder than anyone in your whole life and you're not going to let him out into the field until you're absolutely sure he can handle himself. Do you understand?" Tony's arms snapped up and tightly gripped Steve's bicep. Steve could feel Tony's fingers trembling against his skin and realized Tony was staving off a panic attack. "Promise me."

Steve squatted down so that he was looking up at Tony, who looked physically ill. He pressed his forehead to his husband's. "I promise."

Steve closed his eyes and listened to Tony's deliberate breathing. "And Fury can't make him an Avenger," Tony continued, "not without our say so. And no big stuff. No time travel, giant robot monster armies, or intergalactic space portals."

Steve bit down on his lip to keep himself from laughing as Tony's natural snark returned to his voice. "Fine with me." Steve pulled his head back from Tony's forehead only to replace it with his lips.

Steve stood up when Tony did, not commenting when Tony rubbed at the corners of his eyes. Tony then unfolded the crinkled uniform and held it at eyelevel. "How long did we ground the kid?"

"A month," Steve supplied.

Tony made a face. "We should have made it three."

"Tony," said Steve, "we can't ground him forever just to stave off the inevitable."

"I know," said Tony, speaking as quickly as he was thinking, "but it'll take a while to get vibranium weave from Wakanda and I don't want to be rushed."

Tony's eyes flitted over the suit, measuring, assessing, adjusting, only stopping when he caught sight of Steve in his periphery, arms crossed, hip propped against the sofa, staring with what looked like an expression of surprise. "What?" said Tony, "if our son's going to be Spiderman, then Spiderman's not going to look like a jazzercise instructor."

Steve lifted an eyebrow. "I don't even know what that is," he said, shaking his head as a beleaguered grin bloomed on his jaw. Tony didn't respond, already in the elevator en route to the lab, muttering something about wing suit flaps.


End file.
